


i think it's time i stopped the show

by tmylm



Series: it's the one good thing that i've got [2]
Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bechloe Week, Bechloe Week 2020, Cheating, F/F, Pining, Smut, bechloe - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25668115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmylm/pseuds/tmylm
Summary: Apparently five years of pining just wasn’t long enough.
Relationships: Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell
Series: it's the one good thing that i've got [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859668
Comments: 33
Kudos: 131





	i think it's time i stopped the show

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for bechloe-week 2020 day 8: “Wedding or Cheating.”
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not condone cheating, nor would I ever normally write something like this, but it was literally today's prompt. So with that in mind, please don't hate me or our girls for what is about to unfold!

It is quite the contrast to Beca’s five long, drawn out years of fruitless pining, the whirlwind pace at which Chloe and Chicago’s relationship progresses. Perhaps this is what happens, though, when a person is both active and open with their desire for you. When there are no games, when there is no pointless, ridiculous denial of feelings or the inexplicable, frankly cruel need to make the other person jealous, perhaps a shock engagement after only months of dating is the norm.

And then a small destination wedding only a year after that, perhaps that is normal, too.

It is not like Beca hadn’t expected this to happen at some point. After all, they had only been back in New York a matter of days before Chicago had flown out to visit Chloe (Beca remembers how sickeningly inseparable they were the entire time). They seemed to move in together within weeks, an arrangement Beca is quietly confident would not have gone quite so smoothly if Chicago wasn’t always away for work—moving in with a significant other is a make or break situation, it is not the easy transition it had been for Chloe and Chicago. So, when Beca had inevitably received the invitation not only to attend Chloe’s wedding, but with an attached request for Beca to be involved in the whole event as a bridesmaid no less, she really should not have been surprised.

And perhaps Beca should’ve said something then, perhaps she should’ve finally swallowed her nerves and admitted to her feelings, because there is no proof more solid than a literal _wedding_ to cement the notion that Beca had very much missed her chance—many chances, in fact.

But, she hadn’t, because _of course_ she hadn’t, and now Beca finds herself in the South of France all over again— _“This is where we had our first kiss, it’s such a perfect destination for us!”_ —memories flashing through her mind of the last time she’d been here. Only this time, she is stuck in the middle of the most painful fever dream she can imagine.

Okay, so it is Chloe’s rehearsal dinner... But God, Beca cannot help but hate absolutely _everything_ about it.

She hates that Chloe knows her schedule well enough to know that work would not be a valid excuse for Beca to reject the invitation. Even more so, she hates that Chicago, who apparently comes from a wealthy family—of course he does, why would he not be one hundred percent the _perfect_ man, right?—had effortlessly footed the bill for the whole bridal party. Beca hates that she had no good excuse not to attend, nothing beside the fact that she doesn’t want to watch Chloe promise her life to somebody else.

But she couldn’t tell her that. Of course she couldn’t tell her that. So, this is Beca’s fate, her cruel and unusual punishment for letting time pass her by: watching Chloe, fingers tangled through Chicago’s as she giggles along to a joke that Beca hadn’t heard but that definitely wasn’t as funny as Chloe’s reaction makes it out to be, and trying to come to terms with the realization that, by this time tomorrow, Chloe officially will not be _her_ Chloe anymore.

She hasn’t been her Chloe for a while, in fact.

“Sour drink?” Amy’s voice—unnaturally quiet in comparison to Amy’s usual tone—eventually breaks into her thoughts. Not that Beca is complaining, she doesn’t _like_ her current thoughts, anyway. In fact, thank God the girls are here at all, because Beca is positive she would not survive this long weekend without them.

“What?” Beca questions distractedly, nose wrinkling in thought.

“Just kind of looks like you’ve been sucking on a Warhead or something,” Amy responds with a gentle shrug.

The sour expression wrinkling across Beca’s face is not an intentional one. In fact, she hadn’t even registered the fact that it’d been there at all, not until Amy had literally pointed it out. Quickly, Beca forces the most genuine look of neutrality she can muster onto her previously knotted features. “I’m fine,” she says in a tone of feigned nonchalance, “Just tired, that’s all. It was a long flight.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Amy nods her head in casual agreement. She continues in the most natural, most easy tone, as if simply commenting on the weather or saying hello, “Especially just to watch the person you’ve had a crush on forever get married to someone else.”

“ _What_?”

This time, Beca’s question comes out in something of a muted hiss. In fact, she is struck with a sensation not unlike one caused by a Warhead, where the back of her throat burns and her eyes begin to blink rapidly through the water forming relentlessly beneath her lids.

Amy, of course, rested back coolly into her seat, looks just as calm and collected as she had done all along. She reaches out a hand to scoop up some leftover sour cream from her plate with the pad of her finger, eventually popping it into her mouth as if Beca isn’t sitting beside her suffering what she is pretty positive is some kind of mini stroke.

“ _Amy_ ,” Beca manages to spit out eventually, voice both hushed and desperate sounding. The fact that she is not physically spluttering is a miracle. “What are you… I don’t—”

“Yeah,” Amy says in a tone that is somehow not sarcastic, but that Beca knows is meant as such regardless, “Clearly I’m wrong.”

Beca is still choking on her words, still trying to figure out what the hell she is supposed to say. Her one saving grace, she supposes, is the fact that she does not seem to have drawn any attention to herself. Not from anybody but Amy, at least.

“This is her wedding, Beca,” Amy says in a low voice, one intended only for Beca’s ears. It is fortunate that nobody else is looking their way, nobody else is within a close enough distance to even try to eavesdrop on their conversation. “You can lie to me all you want, but you know that this is your last chance, right?”

Suddenly, Beca cannot help but feel as if she is gasping for air. Her entire mouth grows so uncomfortably dry that she almost considers diving across the table and grabbing the freshly opened bottle of champagne from Chicago’s hand, throwing the whole thing back in one.

And the reality, Beca realizes quickly, is that she is not freaking out the way she is because Amy _knows_ , proof that Beca has clearly been so blatantly obvious all along. She is freaking out because hearing it aloud, the idea of a last chance, something Beca has been trying to come to terms with having lost already, makes Beca feel physically sick.

It is with something of a harsh jolt that Beca rises from her seat. She doesn’t have a destination in mind, she just knows that the air is far too thick in here now. She knows that things have just taken a quick leap from zero to one hundred, and that she needs to be anywhere but where she currently is. Fortunately, people are too busy with their own idle chatter, with fawning over the bride and groom to be, to notice that anything may be untoward, so Beca is free to make her escape mostly uninterrupted.

“Beca…” Amy tries, sitting up a little straighter in her seat.

“I have to go,” Beca hisses in return, easily cutting her off.

“Beca, wait—”

“I’m fine,” Beca insists, despite the fact that nobody has asked. She has already begun to shuffle away from her seat, to leave the table as fast as she can while still remaining relatively undetected, “I’m fine, I just have to go.”

While she hears a small sigh from behind her, pictures the way Amy has slumped back defeatedly into her seat again, she fortunately does not seem to be following. Beca doesn’t need that right now. She doesn’t need anything right now. It is like she has just realized, like it has just fully hit her like the sharpest collision, that she is at Chloe Beale’s _wedding_ , and Beca just...she just needs to be alone.

* * *

It is not just because the South of France is currently experiencing a particularly hot summertime that the air feels even thicker outside.

And it is stupid really, Beca knows that it is so, so stupid, because she has had six years to get used to this. She has had six years to wrap her mind around the fact that Chloe Beale is not hers, that she never truly has been, and Beca cannot help but feel entirely psychotic for her current reaction.

Chloe is her best friend. Chloe is happy, and that is all Beca wants for her, she wants Chloe to be so, so happy. And she is. Clearly, she is. She’s happy with Chicago, happy being so openly, so unashamedly _wanted_. So, Beca hates herself for the fact that she cannot find it within herself to be just as happy for her.

The hand to delicately touch her shoulder is so light and somehow familiar, but Beca cannot help the way the unexpected contact causes her to physically jump on the spot.

“Hey,” Chloe says quickly, immediately retracting her hand in response to Beca’s surprised squeak. “I’m sorry, it’s just me. I didn’t mean to—” She pauses momentarily, auburn brows tugging tightly together as her gaze scans over the look of horror on Beca’s face. “I saw you leave kind of quickly, and I thought… Bec, are you okay?”

The sheer dramatics of the fact that she cannot properly process her surroundings are absolutely not lost on Beca. Still, her expression wrinkles into an entirely confused one as she eyes Chloe, heart hammering so hard that it really might break its way out of her chest at any moment. Finally, she remembers to suck down a breath, before responding with an admittedly unfairly annoyed sounding, “What?”

Chloe is still studying her, so openly and unashamedly just like Chloe always does. Slowly, a pale hand outstretches to press lightly to Beca’s forehead. “What’s going on? Are you sick?”

It is an unusual kind of instinct for Beca to retreat, to duck away from Chloe’s delicate touch. “Stop it. I’m fine,” she responds in the least convincing tone—seriously, even Beca can hear her own insincerity.

“Beca—” Chloe tries, instinctively reaching out to settle her hand against Beca’s forearm. Immediately, Beca shakes her off.

“Dude, stop touching me. This is your wedding...or your rehearsal dinner...for your wedding,” Beca swallows, “You shouldn’t be—”

Before now, throughout the six whole years she has known Chloe, Beca has never witnessed her recoil into herself the way she does in response to Beca’s tone, to Beca telling her not to touch her. It is almost like Beca’s skin is on fire, like the touch has burned the tips of Chloe’s fingers, the way she quickly pulls them back. There is a look akin to hurt on Chloe’s face that Beca doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to be the cause of. But, here they are.

“Why are you being like this?” Chloe finally asks, her tone a little more cautious this time.

“Because I don’t want to be here, okay?” Beca finally blurts out. She has already begun to back away, and she takes note of the way Chloe hesitates at first, evidently considering following. Though, ultimately, she stays put, eyes widening momentarily in response to Beca’s outburst.

“What?” This time, Chloe’s expression wrinkles into something that conveys a mixture of both confusion and some vague kind of annoyance. “What do you mean you don’t want to be here?”

“Here!” Beca responds quickly, tone somewhat panicked. “Here, at your wedding. You’re getting married, Chloe, and I don’t want—” Beca wonders if she had perhaps blacked out for a second there, because her words seem to have left her without her permission. She catches herself quickly, though, making sure to cut herself off. “Just go back inside, okay?” She says instead. She is sure that the panic is now evident on her face as she proceeds to back away more quickly, until she eventually turns to properly leave. “Please, just go back inside.”

“Wh—” Chloe’s words die on her tongue. “Beca… What?”

Despite her confusion, her usual level of persistence, Chloe does not follow.

* * *

How Beca even makes it back to her room is a miracle in and of itself. It is fortunate that the rehearsal dinner is taking place in the same hotel, and that she simply has to walk from one building to the next.

Beca feels like she is in a movie, one of those dramatic ones with a shitty ending, with the way she all but collapses back against the closed hotel room door once she is safely inside. It is like she hasn’t remembered to breathe until now, and the deep, shaky exhale she allows herself seems to kick start her hammering heart all over again.

“Holy fuck,” she whispers quietly to herself, chest rising and falling faster with the pace of her ragged breathing. A hand lifts to cup her forehead, eyes closing briefly as she takes in the severity, the true unfairness, of her prior outburst. “Dude, what the fuck are you doing?”

Unsure of whether she should cry, scream or throw up, she eventually pushes herself, unsteadily, up from her slumped back position against the door, blinking wildly at her surroundings. Her small suitcase lay on the floor, only half unpacked. The sight of tomorrow’s dress hanging up menacingly on the closet door makes her head spin wildly, and Beca wonders if she can muster enough dignity to _not_ go tear it down.

She should expect a knock at the door, she knows she should. But, it comes as a surprise to Beca when it happens, even more so when she hears Chloe’s voice, laced with anger and confusion, calling out to her in a way that almost stops her heart, “Beca, open this door. Now.”

Beca has had almost twenty-five years now to learn that she has absolutely no fight reaction within her, and that she is very much a _flight_ kind of person. So, it would be easy for her to ignore Chloe’s demand, to pretend she isn’t there. It would be instinct, in fact. However, Beca’s feet seem to be moving independently from the rest of her body, because with more confidence than she has any right to display, she finds herself marching toward the door, eventually tugging it open with a shaky hand.

“What the fuck was that?” Chloe questions without missing a beat. Beca doesn’t respond—not that Chloe gives her much of a chance—and instead just stares as Chloe pushes her way into the room, door slamming shut behind her. “You don’t want to be at my wedding? Fine, don’t be here. But first, tell me why.”

It is kind of uncharacteristic for Beca to actually stand her ground, but despite Chloe’s close proximity, Beca finds herself planted firmly to the spot. She is wearing heels that even out she and Chloe’s slight height difference, and can look directly into Chloe’s angered, burning gaze.

“Tell me. Why don’t you want to be here?” Chloe presses, balled fists digging into her hips.

In spite of her apparent strength, the strength that is allowing her not to shrink beneath Chloe’s icy glare, Beca’s voice comes out small and nervous sounding, head shaking softly, “Chlo, don’t…”

“No,” Chloe demands, “No, I want to hear it. Why don’t you want to be at my wedding?”

“Chloe…” Beca practically whispers this time. Her previous anger, previous panic, seems to have dissipated in favor of unbridled sadness, and Beca knows that there is a pleading look in her eyes as she stares back into the most unfairly familiar gaze.

“You had five years, Beca,” Chloe’s voice cracks slightly as she speaks. She is still holding her ground, still evidently angry, but Beca notes the way her shoulders slump just slightly. She sees the way Chloe begins to relent, likely against her own will. “You had five years. I was yours for five years if you wanted me, you knew that I was.”

It is typical really, the fact that it takes _this_ , the fact that it takes up until now, at the most inappropriate, inopportune moment, for Beca to finally open up, but her sad, almost pleading voice responds with no uncertainty, “I wanted you, Chloe. I always wanted you.”

At that, Chloe simply stares, and for perhaps the first time in six years, for the first time since she has known Chloe Beale, Beca experiences Chloe at a loss for words.

Beca’s heart is beating so wildly, so dangerously wildly, that she can barely even hear her own whispered words over the sound of it thudding in her ears. “Chloe, I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Chloe says in return, though Beca doesn’t properly hear that either. This time, however, it is not because of her hammering heart. Instead, it is because Chloe’s words are muffled by Beca’s lips, by the way they press so desperately back against Chloe’s as soft palms rise up to cup at Beca’s rosy cheeks. The force of the kiss, something Beca returns so easily, pushes Beca back, but Chloe’s palms keep a firm grasp on her face, and suddenly Beca feels like she is fighting to throw the last six years of strong, undeniable feelings for Chloe Beale right into that one single kiss.

Beca feels the mattress touch the backs of her legs, almost jolting her back to reality. It seems to serve as a reminder for Chloe, too, because they part at the same time, two sets of blue eyes staring so desperately into one another’s.

“I’m sorry,” Beca whispers again, arms rising to wrap tightly around Chloe’s neck, until she can pull Chloe’s body flush against her own. Their lips meet again so naturally, so easily.

And this is wrong, Beca knows that it is wrong. She knows that Chloe knows it, too. Chloe is getting married, they are here for Chloe’s wedding. They should not be falling back onto Beca’s hotel room bed together, Beca should not be pulling Chloe down on top of her with a tight hold that threatens to never let go, but she can’t help herself. Neither of them can help themselves.

It doesn’t feel like it has been years since they last touched one another, at least not to Beca. Her arms fall from around Chloe’s neck, but only to desperately clutch at the tight fabric of her elegant rehearsal dinner dress. Beca should stop this, she knows she should stop it. Chloe is literally _cheating_ on her fiancé, and Beca is no better for being the person she is cheating with. But the selfish part of Beca knows that she couldn’t stop this even if she wanted to—and God, she really, really doesn’t want to.

Beca’s chest moves at a faster pace as Chloe’s lips trail away from her own and down toward her jaw, desperate kisses peppered to each patch of prickling skin they touch. Beca’s head tips back into the pillows, soft whimper escaping her throat in response to the feeling of Chloe’s parted lips pushing delicately to the exposed skin of her neck.

And this is still wrong, this is still so, so wrong. It is wrong, the way Beca tugs at Chloe’s dress until it is removed from her body and tossed messily onto the floor. It is wrong, the way Chloe undresses Beca so quickly, too. Chloe’s lips shouldn’t be trailing down her body, pushing hot, open mouthed kisses to the hill of her breasts as Beca shuffles to unclasp her own bra. They shouldn’t be tearing away one another’s underwear, and God, Chloe’s face should _not_ be burrowing between Beca’s parted, trembling thighs, tongue beginning to move against her aching clit in a way that Beca hasn’t gotten to experience in the longest time, but that still somehow feels like it is second nature, like they have been doing this all along.

Beca wants to hate herself when they are done, when she comes apart beneath the expert movements of Chloe’s tongue, of her fingers sunk the whole way inside of her as Beca’s fists grip harshly onto the sheets beneath her. She wants to hate herself once Chloe’s walls tighten around Beca’s arched fingers, she wants to hate herself as Chloe moans out her name and Beca feels the way she comes for her so hard that it is clear this has been pent up for so long now.

But, she doesn’t. She can’t, because no matter how selfish this is, no matter how unfair it is to Chloe, and even more so to her fiancé, Beca can’t hate herself for finally giving in to her aching need for the woman laid beneath her.

A wordless exchange follows. Lingering eye contact as two sweaty bodies move in sync with one another, both trying to even out their breathing. Beca hovers over the top of Chloe, staring down at the most familiar sight, and Chloe’s gaze doesn’t hold the level of panic Beca knows that it should.

“I’m…” Beca swallows, still trying to regulate her breathing, “I’m so sorry, Chloe.” Regardless, she doesn’t move, she stays where she is laid over the top of Chloe’s naked body, and Chloe makes no attempt to move her, either.

“No,” Chloe says in a quiet yet sure sounding voice. Her tongue flickers out to lick over her dry lips, and Beca takes the time to study Chloe’s expression. She studies the freckles peeking from beneath her expertly applied foundation, the ones Beca hasn’t been close enough to see for the longest time, but that have been ingrained in her memory for years now. She studies the red tint to Chloe’s cheeks, the comfort in her glistening eyes, and suddenly Beca is eighteen years old again, she is learning Chloe Beale for the very first time.

“That was… That wasn’t fair to him,” Chloe finally continues. It is kind of incredible that she can maintain such strong eye contact throughout even _this_ serious of a conversation, though the fact that Beca doesn’t look away really does have it beat. “But I haven’t been fair to him all along.”

Although she doesn’t question her verbally, Beca’s brows tug together slightly at that, so Chloe elaborates.

“You know I’ve always been yours, Beca,” Chloe whispers sincerely, hand lifting to tuck a chunk of fallen hair neatly behind Beca’s ear. Beca cannot help the way her face tilts naturally into Chloe’s touch. “He didn’t deserve this, but…”

Chloe trails off, and Beca knows that there really is no _but_. Chloe is right, Chicago did not deserve this. Nobody deserves this. But somehow, Beca knows what Chloe is saying, she understands her mind. She understands the unfair, unjust _but_ , and Beca finds herself gently nodding along as she searches Chloe’s glassy eyes.

Especially taking into consideration her past, her father’s affair that ultimately destroyed Beca’s trust in the idea of love, it really makes no sense that Beca hasn’t stopped this. But that is the thing with Chloe; nothing makes sense, but somehow, everything makes sense all at once. It is a phenomenon that Beca can’t quite explain, much like Chloe herself.

In a bid to protect Chloe’s heart—and for some reason Chicago’s—Beca says in a quiet yet sincere voice, “We don’t have to tell anyone about this. He doesn’t have to know.”

Although Chloe seems to think momentarily, Beca knows that her mind is made up already. So, although she feels a wave of relief wash over her when Chloe eventually shakes her head, realistically, it doesn’t altogether surprise her.

“No,” Chloe says softly, “I wouldn’t do that to him… But mostly, this isn’t a one time thing with you, Beca. I don’t want this to be a one time thing.” Slowly, her face lifts upward until Chloe can push a gentle peck to Beca’s lips, one that Beca easily returns. “I want something real with you, Beca.”

Eyes searching Chloe’s again once they both pull back, Beca gently nods her head in agreement.

Six years. Six years it has taken for Beca to finally open up, to finally admit to everything she wants. Her words come out quietly but easily, they are laced with a level of sincerity that Beca has wished so hard she could meet Chloe with for six years now,

“I want something real with you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! [This is me](http://chloebeale.tumblr.com). Like part one, this work was written super last minute and is entirely unbeta'd. Please forgive any mistakes!
> 
> Again: cheating = bad.


End file.
